


Not Another Heartwarming Horse Movie

by slytherinquoll



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinquoll/pseuds/slytherinquoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not supposed to fall in love with your competition, especially when they're from your rival barn, and their saddle is probably worth more than your entire tack room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Another Heartwarming Horse Movie

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a giftfic from slytherintimelord to me. They wrote the first 650 words or so, then it switches to my shit. I have a plot, I promise, I just need to get there.

Dean looks down at Bobby only taking in half of what he’s saying about the course because River is jogging in place under him, nosing at the gate, and in general being a little shit.  
"You’re not at the track you dumb animal," Bobby grunts as Dean rubs his hand over her neck in a silent apology for the trainer’s surly words.  
Damn horse could have been grand prix dressage for all this stupid trotting in place. “You know what you’re doing?” Bobby cocks an eyebrow at Dean who grins in return.  
"Kicking and steering," he laughs back and lightly touches his heels to River’s sides.  
"On course we have Riverside Blues, owned by Robert Singer and ridden by Dean Winchester," comes the announcement. River prances in and throws her head because she knows she’s fucking special before Dean gives her the slightest of nudges and she rounds up to do the course.  
"Arsehole showed up in a stock trailer," mutters Crowley as he watches his rider’s competition clear jump after jump. “You’re going to have to cut your corners, do whatever, just make that fucking mule move."  
Castiel rolls his eyes and pets over Graces’ withers. “It’s okay buddy, Fergus is just being an asshole.”  
Dean’s face is alight as River clears the last jump. The scoreboard with his time and faults is positioned, probably on purpose, so it’s what the riders see as they clear the last jump. Good time and no faults. He rises on the stirrups and slips his hands to the buckle of the reins so his horse can have her head to thunder over the line that will stop the clock. As he exits the ring he gives a cocky two fingered salute as he trots his horse past his competition. “Beat that.”  
"I intend to," comes Talbot’s voice but Dean catches that Novak is chewing his lip. He’s made him nervous. Good. That was his intention.  
Dean snaps up and levels his eyes on the rider in front of him. “Excuse me?”  
"I just wanted to say, I’m sorry for what I said at Spruce Meadows, you’re a good rider, Riverside Blues is a great horse. I’m glad there are combinations like you to show that rescuing horses and anyone from any walk of life can compete if they put their minds to it."  
"So cause I’m broke and River was slated for slaughter I should be an inspiration," Dean questions, eyebrow raised.  
"Yes, but I don’t mean to patronize you," Castiel starts but Dean cuts him off.  
"Look, I forgive you but let’s just promise each other one thing. We never let Talbot win. Ever." Dean offers his pinky in a childish seal of the commitment.

Castiel’s smile is wide and moves to latch their fingers together. “Sure.”  
Dean cuts him off again, planting his boots in the ground to drag Castiel into his space so that he can press a kiss to the monied rider’s lips. As expected Cas’ eye go wide, caught off guard by Dean’s motions.  
Then, the tables turn. Dean was thinking if he kissed the guy from the overtly religious family that he’d throw him off, take him out of the competition for the jump off. What he wasn’t expecting was the hand that dug into the back of his head holding him into his stolen kiss. And most certainly he wasn’t expecting the tongue that pushes in between his lips pushing over and claiming his own.  
Castiel sucks his tongue into his own mouth as he pulls away, breaking the kiss with an audible suction noise. “That shit won’t work on me, Winchester,” Castiel smirks, trailing his hand on the underside of Dean’s jaw as he moves off to leave. “Good luck.”  
Castiel turns away, slipping fingers into the small pockets at the front of his breeches, jacket riding up ever so slightly as he does, and Dean is for once glad for the current trends in rider wear. Hems have been getting steadily shorter each season. Or at least the expensive technology filled ones have. Wool stays the same.  
"No, I wanted the opposite of this," Dean all but whines.  
"Opposite of what?" Bobby asks, rounding the corner, "That was a damn good round, boy. That combination’s tricky. You’re a lucky bastard if you ask me, that mare of yours is a smart cookie."  
"Hmm," Dean replies. Bobby’s right, the jump off field is narrowing with every ride. At this point it’s likely he’s already in the money just with his clean round. Time allowed is tight and the triple combination rides short, but the approach is long. People have been struggling to collect their horses all day.  
In the end the field is narrowed to four riders, Dean, Castiel, one of Ash’s new riders, and the ever present Bela Talbot. What a bitch. Dean’s pretty sure her barn’s not a nice place for horses to end up. Still, at least it’s not the old Winchester barn. Or any one of them, for that matter.  
Dean had thought about riding under a false name when he first began showing River. Growing up John Winchester had been a tough trainer. He’d been tough on his boys and even tougher on his horses, picking up and moving cross country on a whim if he decided one day that too many rumors were circulating about the treatment of his horses. Or his boys, for that matter. Of course, the practices he sometimes employed were not ever unheard of in the western pleasure world, it’s just that when so many people are talking a person can get paranoid. And rightly so because more often than not the rumors were more than a little based in truth.  
For a while the boys managed to leave horses completely. Sam now owned and competed agility and obedience with a small pack of golden retrievers, and for that, Dean was mighty proud. But Dean just couldn’t leave the life. He had reached out to Bobby Singer, the man who had put them up one night in a storm when their trailer had a flat. Dean was pretty sure the trailer maintenance money had been swallowed in bottles of whiskey. After that Mr. Singer’s jumping horses had been a welcome sight, as John’s client list dwindled.  
Which is why, many years later, after the crash, the Singer barn was the logical place for Dean to go. He had showed up on his doorstep in a pair of beaten up paddock boots and jeans begging for at least a job shoveling shit and administering supplements.  
Over three years later he found himself competing on this circuit, bright lights and crowds gathered in silence as Bela struggled to set her big, dark stallion up to the water. The watchers on gave a collective sound of approval as the horse kicked out over the back, giving every effort to clear the brightly colored rails, two more until she was clear. And goddammit, that smug look on her face as she landed the last jump, throwing her arms out in a big effort was like a boot to Dean’s face.  
In the end, Cas went clear but had a fraction of a second longer trip than Bela. Dean had a rail, bringing him into third. Ash’s rider was good, but inexperienced and seemed to lose it a bit in the bright lights and whir of the crowd.  
Dean was bummed, but not altogether unhappy. This was a good placement and the money was enough to cover their trip, with enough left over to buy Jo some thank you drinks for filling in as his groom.  
Which is why, in the confidence of a victory lap and a nice win like this, Dean found himself sauntering over to the Crowley stalls. He found Castiel with a bottle of water, tie undone and jacket off.  
"Hey, I uh, just wanted to, uh, congratulate you. That was a really great ride tonight." Since when had he become such a fucking chick? He thought as he eased a smile.  
"Thank you, Dean. You put in a stellar ride as well. That course was difficult. This course designer always sets a rewarding challenge." Castiel was drilling Dean with his goddamn eyes.  
"Thanks," Dean managed as he reached up to loosen his tie. At least Bobby didn’t make him wear a stock tie anymore. He never did get the hang of making it look nice and Jo was getting tired of fixing it for him. (she said she’d skin him alive if he showed up in a pre-tied or clip on, which was what encouraged Bobby to let him have a plain grey tie)  
"Dean, can you help me with my boots?" Castiel asked as he sat on his tack trunk. He was playing dirty now, his face a nearly clean mask of innocence.  
"These ain’t my old Wranglers, Cas," Dean said as he slapped the back pockets of his white breeches, "And an old charity case like me can’t afford to be putting boot prints all over the ass of my best white show breeches." Nonetheless, he turned his back to the other rider obligingly and grabbed a boot, patting his ass lightly in an invitation for Castiel to place his boot as leverage. Dean pulled one boot off, then the other, tossing them over to Castiel with a bit more force than strictly necessary, then sat down next to him, scooting in close on the finely stained wooden trunk.  
"You gonna be at Fall Harvest?"  
"Of course," Castiel’s voice was irritatingly cool.  
"Good, wouldn’t want to miss a chance for you to reciprocate the favor," Dean said, grabbing the brown top of the boots momentarily before letting it go in favor of sliding a hand to the other rider’s thigh. "See ya round, Cas." Dean smiled as his hand moved further, lightly slapping a hand down over the bulge of Castiel’s breeches before getting up and jogging away.  
Cas was dumfounded.  
Dean chanced a glance back as he jogged away and thought, yeah, filing that look away for later tonight. It was too easy to imagine looking up into that face, hair sweaty and absolutely messed, that hard gaze softened with need. And more, how it had become so much more with each night that his thoughts wandered back towards Cas. Dean found himself extra eager to get back on the road the two weeks leading up to the next show. The fucker was tormenting Dean’s imagination. And he had only started this dumb thing as a chance to move up in the standings a bit.  
Two weeks later when Jo and Dean went to set up River’s assigned stall, Dean began to round a corner but immediately shrunk back and crashed into Jo.  
“What the hell, Dean?” she pushed him off and looked over his shoulder. “It’s just Camp Crowley, I know he’s ugly but we’ll survive as long as you can put petty grudges aside long enough.” She frowned and added, “Please don’t kill me.”  
Dean shifted his feet, “No it—yeah, he’s a dick about River but—“  
She stared him down, “I don’t believe you, but I will figure out what’s got you all riled up, Winchester.” And turned and plowed on, once in the stall grabbing a knife from her back pocket to cut open a bag of shavings and dump it over as Dean caught up to help her kick it around the stall, having more fun than was strictly necessary.  
“Would you like to borrow a pitchfork?”  
Goddammit, Dean thought as he straightened up and turned to look at the face he’d seen in his dreams for the past few weeks. “Thanks, Cas but it’s more fun this way. And you know, not afraid to get my non-custom boots a little dirty.” Damn, look at his hair. It’s just not fair how tousled it looks.  
At that Jo snorted, “Uhh, clean shavings, you two! God forbid my boots should come into contact with something really icky, like, say, horse shit!” She held up a foot clad in a worn brown roper boot and shook it slightly, clean shavings fluttering off and back into the pile.  
Castiel looked her up and down for a moment, then turned and addressed Dean, “I haven’t had a good look at your boots yet.”  
“They’re zip up.” Dean tried really, very hard not to sound disappointed.  
“Oh, I expect I have plenty of time for a close up later.” And with the very slightest hint of smile Castiel turned back and propped one of his own on a tack trunk and began to buff it.  
“Don’t look at me like that.” Dean muttered as they made their way past Castiel and over to the trailer to unload River and all their gear. Dean dragged his plastic tack trunk behind while Bobby lead River, Jo carried a grooming kit.  
She leaned in and whispered, “So Camp Crowley…”  
“Yeah, what about it?” Dean grunted.  
“I’d say the most exciting thing is one of the campers, am I right? Tell me I’m right.”  
“I hate you, Joanna Beth.” Dean grunted as he let go of his trunk in front of the stall to the dismay of one of Crowley’s riders.  
“Yeah, it’s plastic,” he said, “but it has wheels.”  
For the most part River’s schooling session went fine despite a few hiccoughs involving a horse nearly crashing into them in the crowded ring and some completely unexpected and unplanned lateral movements nearly crushing her rider’s leg against the wall.  
“I never knew she could half pass at the canter!” Dean walked out of the ring and hopped down, his trainer grabbed the reins.  
“And that’s why they make fun of you, sweetheart.” Bobby laughed, but not unkindly.  
But Dean frowned nonetheless. “Hey, she’s on her second career and she jumps like a badass.”  
“Damn straight!” Ash called from somewhere on the other side of River. “That horse is a certified bad ass. She goes fast and leaves rails where they’re supposed to be and that’s all that matters in this fine sport. That’s why I love it so much.”  
Dean sighed, “Well Ash, I’m glad to know there’s at least someone here besides us who doesn’t think she belongs at Jesus bible camp for kiddies, home of the semi-sound reject ponies.”  
Dean turned with River towards the stabling area to settle his mare in her stall for the night but a deep voice called out, “I think the two of you make a great team.” Castiel was catching up to him with his mare, walking as close as he dared. The big grey horse seemed to like her space, and River was not about to test anything soon.  
The two riders lead their horses to their stalls, and Castiel pulled her tack off quickly before a groom could come over to help him. He closed Grace in her stall and opened the neighboring stall door, leaning on the side.  
“Let me help you.” Cas said, stepping forward and grabbing the bridle out of Dean’s hands, crowding Dean’s personal space.  
Suddenly Dean found a hand at his hip, grabbing at his belt and then, a pair of lips on his. He stepped back until his feet met wood planks and his head met metal bars, a bit roughly as he grabbed at the other man’s sweater, pulling him back down. Castiel had wrapped an arm around Dean’s lower back which Dean arched into, kiss becoming rougher and more desperate. Dean reached up to pull a hand through that beautifully messy hair but Castiel pulled back and turned his attention toward the horse, and started unbuckling the girth. Dean took a step forward and heard footsteps approaching.  
“Thanks Cas.” He said, taking the proffered saddle and pads, flopping them down on a metal saddle rack next to the tack trunk just as Jo arrived.  
“You’re welcome, Dean.” Said Castiel rather quietly as he closed the stall door and moved in front of his own tack trunk.  
Jo raised an eyebrow but Dean’s only reply was a dull, “No comment.”  
“Sure thing Mr. Macho, I’d love to stay and watch but I’ve gotta head out, besides, it looks like you found yourself a new groom.” She smiled and turned, calling a cheerful, “Good luck tomorrow!” as she went.  
Shows always started too early for Dean, reluctant to leave the warmth of another motel bed, but eager to get things going nonetheless. By the time he had made it back to the show grounds he was on his second cup of coffee and the sun had come up fully. The other competitors may get to sleep in, but he was his own groom and River needed to eat, a clean stall, and fresh water.  
Dean wasn’t surprised to find Ash there as well, giving the distinct impression he had simply crashed in the tack stall on some hay.  
“Hey man, thanks for keeping a watch over everything,” Dean smirked as the scrawny trainer stumbled out of the curtained spare stall. Ash was a no nonsense horseman, and Dean respected the hell out of him for it.  
“No problemo, captain!” No hint of embarrassment at all as he found his second shoe and scrounged around a tackbox for a lighter.  
Dean watched as he pulled out a tin of hand rolled tobacco and lit one. “So how many riders you got here this time Ash?”  
“Just the two, you know that girl Lisa? She went full out eventer so she’s not on this circuit anymore.”  
Dean laughed, “Yeah, I remember Lisa.”  
“Yeah you would,” A little half chuckle stuck somewhere in his throat, “Anyway her horse was good at dressage and I guess she started jumping him over all kinds of shit on the farm and he took to it so she decided they were the next Hawley Bennett and Gin and Juice, or something.” Ash contemplated Dean for a second, “Just you and that old crochety drunk today?”  
“Ellen’s having some sort of a thing at the Roadhouse, says she’ll kill Jo if she’s not there to help, so yeah. Just me and the Old Man today.”  
“I respect a man for riding at this level without a groom, good man.” Ash tipped an invisible hat.  
“Thanks, Ash,” he said quietly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go play groom.”  
By the time the other riders started filing in Dean had his mare tended to, cleaned up, and braided. And he may or may not have snuck one of Ellen’s homemade oatmeal and molasses treats into Grace’s feed.  
Bobby showed up just as Dean was frowning at the mostly empty, cooled thermos in his hands.  
“Hey Bobby, please tell me they’re selling coffee somewhere on this showground.”  
“And good morning to you too, sunshine.” Dean just stared expectantly, “Somewhere by registration. Go get your number while you’re at it.”  
Dean was up and headed out before his trainer was done talking.  
The rest of the morning went on without any hitches, Castiel showing up just as Dean came wandering back with a number and a new coffee. Cas looked like he had been the one sleeping in a stack of bales, spare shavings stuck to his breeches despite having just stepped into the barn.


End file.
